The Burned Job
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate Universe. *They usually work alone, but tonight, two groups of thieves have to learn to work together.* Arrow with a Leverage-style spin. Knowledge of Leverage isn't necessary. A (late) birthday gift for MysteriousTwinkie. Complete.


**Title: The Burned Job  
Word Count: 4814**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arrow or Leverage. If I did, I would have written this a ****_long_**** time ago.**

**Notes: **This is my birthday gift for sarahtwinkie/MysteriousTwinkie/ihatepeas and all of the other names she goes by. :P It's a little late, but, in all fairness, I only learned about it Tuesday. Anyhow, she asked for an Olicity kiss of any kind, and, well, I've delivered, I think. :P I'll let you all be the judges on this one.

I also noticed that I missed posting a random AU one-shot for 16,000 hits and 400 reviews on _Technical Assistance_. I hope you all enjoy it, too. Anyhow, thanks very much for reading. Any reviews/comments are appreciated. :)

* * *

Quentin Lance purses his mouth as he looks at the files laid out in front of him by the aviation mogul across the table, frowning as he looks at the files. As a former detective, of course he knows all of the names; Dubenich was a fool to even dare ask that question. "Probably chased all of 'em, at one point or another," he growls as he nurses his scotch, paying careful attention to what has been handed him. He frowns as he reads the first name, wanting nothing more than to tear up the file on that son of a bitch, and then moves on to the lackey and the street thug. But when he reaches the final file, he balks. "And you have _her_ to round out this merry band of thieves." He points to her file. "You do realize she's a few tacos short of a fiesta platter, right? Smart girl, but crazy."

The pudgy man across from him doesn't respond the way he expects, leaning across the table and focusing on him with squinting eyes. "Is there anyone better?" is his immediate answer, fiddling with his watch as he speaks.

Lance balks, but he answers thoughtfully, "Probably not." He frowns because he doesn't like this entire approach, but he's intrigued enough to keep going. After all, he's a little strapped for cash, and he can't help but feel a little sorry for this guy. Corporate espionage is alive and well, apparently, and it's not _his_ fault that Pearson Aviation stole Dubenich's designs. Lance looks through the files again. "But the problem is," he continues slowly, "these guys? They all have the same MO: they don't fraternize. They work two-man teams, and they don't double-book."

"But they _will_," Dubenich retorts, "For three hundred thousand dollars each. And for you—for running it—it's _double_." He motions to the spread of files. "I need thieves, and I have them. But I _also_ need one honest man to keep them in line. What do you say?"

Lance has plenty of different things to say to that, but he knows a good deal when he sees one.

* * *

Oliver doesn't like this setup. He and Diggle work together, and everyone knows that. They work _alone_ because it's how they work best. If there's anything he knows, it's that a full crew will always end up betraying one another, and he's not going through that shitstorm again. Not since— He doesn't allow himself to think about that, since the pain still runs deep. There's a reason he stopped taking jobs with crews five years ago. But he can't exactly pass up three hundred grand, and he thinks that's what the boss was counting on. Sighing, he steps onto the rooftop, Diggle behind him.

He expects anything but what he sees from the crew already stationed there. The kid—because the boy can't be out of his teenage years yet—is setting up some sort of rappelling rig, testing harnesses and whatnot. He's in a red hoodie pulled over his head, so Oliver can't discern his features too well. But he seems too young to know how to use harnesses, rigs, and be such a hotshot with them. And it's then that Oliver realizes this must be Harper, the kid everyone's been talking about for years. He's supposed to be one of the best thieves of all times, but he's younger than Oliver expects.

The other one, however, is more out-of place than the first. She looks to be a few years older than the boy, sitting cross-legged to the left of the rig with a laptop, typing away into it. Blonde curls fall into her face, her eyes focused only on the screen in front of her. A glasses case sits next to her, apparently stored away for the night because she's not wearing them. Her lips are painted a wild shade of fuchsia, and a black knit cap hangs off of her computer screen.

"Use the comms to communicate," a gruff male voice says, and Oliver thinks that might be their so-called "boss" for this job on the speakerphone laid out in front of them.

"Um, no," the blonde says flatly, looking up from her computer. She holds up a box of comms, staring at them in disgust. "In fact, 'no' isn't quite strong enough. Maybe 'hell no' works better." She shakes her head. "You must have gotten these from VH1 because they're best of the eighties, my friend. And _not_ the good part of the eighties—like Madonna and legwarmers." She throws the box over her shoulder, off the rooftop. "I have something more this century that will work better."

"No tricks, Smoak," is the response, to which she sticks out her tongue. Oliver thinks it might be the most interesting thing he's ever seen; watching a criminal act like a child in response to authority just seems ridiculously out of place.

She salutes, even though their boss can't see them. "I've been doing this since high school, my friend. I know what I'm doing. And _I'm_ the disciplined one. Abercrombie over here?" She does a head tilt to the boy with the rig behind her. "_He's_ the one who nearly got his ass arrested because he thought it would be fun to use Mick Jagger's credit card to rent a hotel penthouse—with a table tennis set. So that we could play _beer pong_." Her tone changes as she says to the boy, "And I totally destroyed you at it. Make a note never to play beer pong with a math whiz—it's all angles and geometry and physics. Same for pool. We should play pool sometime, Abercrombie. Yet another game I could beat you at."

Oliver watches as the kid crosses his arms, smiling cockily. "Dream on, Blondie," is his dry retort before shrugging his hood back. He's of average height, with angular features and dark, spiky hair. He smiles as he tests the legs of the rappelling device by pulling against them. "Last time I used this rig was Paris 2009," he comments to the blonde. "Remember that?"

"Oh, yeah," she answers with a chuckle. "I don't forget having to manipulate a laser grid. Next time? We're stealing our Carvaggios from the Louvre—easier security." Oliver processes that, thinking for a moment. That was a pretty well-known heist, so clearly they're a solid team with an impressive résumé.

Diggle, the first to integrate on any gig, walks up to them. The blonde smiles at him. "Oh, hello, you must be the one we're waiting on." She holds out the box of comms sitting next to her. "Here, have a comm. After all, we have to be able to communicate with the Master." She chuckles before adding in a monotone, "You will be upgraded."

The kid groans. "We've been spending _way_ too much time together, because I see what you did there." She finger-points at him, only to make him groan again. "And I just did it too." He shakes his head. "That's it—I'm done with your nerd shows."

Diggle ignores them with the indulgent smile Oliver has earned on any number of occasions. "I'm John Diggle—most people call me Diggle or Digg. Getaway driver, for lack of a better title."

The blonde waves with a smile. "That's Roy Harper. Thief, for lack of a better title." She winks, showing the mockery is all in good fun. "And _my_ name is Felicity Smoak. I'll be your computer technology expert for the evening. I get the good title."

Oliver finds himself drawn toward them, despite his usual desire to stay out of the group. Perhaps it's her quirky openness, or perhaps something else, but he actually feels welcome for a change. From her other side, he says quietly, "Can I have a comm, too?"

She jumps, immediately turning toward him. When she does, a dazed expression crosses her face, and Oliver wonders what he's done wrong. Finally she holds it out before blurting, "You can have the whole box." She flushes immediately, running a hand over her face. "Please ignore me, I'm a spaz. You _can_ have the whole box if you want—because that's the last one—but you distracted me with your..." She trails off, waving a hand in his direction as if that gesture rationally finishes her sentence for her.

Roy chuckles. "Smooth moves, Godiva," he comments wryly, nudging her shoulder, "but what are you gonna do when he realizes you live with eighty-nine cats?" His grin lifts his mouth up at one corner, and he looks as though he expects a dramatic response.

He gets one. Felicity throws the empty comm box at him as her face goes crimson. "I don't live with _eighty-nine_ cats, Harper," she retorts indignantly. She ticks them off on her fingers as she says, "There's just Cheshire, Aslan, Sawyer, Bastet, Sabor, Mao, Graymalkin, and Raja. That's eight, not eighty-nine." She points a finger at him. "And I'll remember this insult the next time you stay over. I'll leave Sabor out and let her eat your face off."

Diggle clears his throat, commanding the situation in that way he seems to have. "This is Oliver Queen, and he's our retrieval specialist for this job." He holds his hands up. "I'll be in the car, but always in contact." With that, he turns and walks back to the staircase, leaving the thieves to their game.

"Alright," Lance calls through the comms, and Felicity shuts off the phone laying out. "We're on the mark. Everybody to their positions." Felicity doesn't move from her post under the rig, tucking her hair under the knit cap over head and putting her gadgets in her duffle bag as if she's perfectly fine where she is. Harper clips his harness to the rig, smiling for the first time that night, as though this is his favorite part of the job. "Harper, no freelancing. We're on the count—start in five... four..."

Felicity pokes Oliver in the leg, motioning him to move more leftward. "You're gonna want to move for this one, Oliver. Trust me." It sounds ominous, so he does as she asks.

"We're on the count," Lance repeats in a growl, and Oliver can tell he's not thrilled with her interruption. "Five... four..."

Felicity's back is to the rig, but as soon as Harper's worn Converses slap across the rooftop as he breaks into a run, she says, "Oh, that boy's long gone, Lance." Oliver watches with fascination as the kid runs as fast as he can to the roof's edge, jumping with his arms away from his body. He can hear the cry of excitement as he starts the freefall, and Oliver can't help but shake his head.

"He has to be insane," Oliver comments, shaking his head in concern. There's no way that a normal human being could enjoy being suspended in the air by a rope, and he's convinced that the kid can't be all there.

"That's what they all say," Felicity replies cheerily, linking her arm through his. "But then they work with me, and they change their minds about Roy. He's the thrill-seeker, and I'm the crazy one."

He thinks this might be the last job he'll ever double-book on, no matter what the price.

* * *

Felicity can feel her palms sweating in the leather gloves as she walks up to the server room door with Oliver. She doesn't like working with someone beside Roy; she's quirky and bizarre, but Roy is the only person she's ever worked with who hasn't seemed to mind. She's never been good with people—never had any friends—but Roy has become her best—and _only_—friend over the past five years of working together. And while Oliver is certainly pretty to look at, he just isn't Roy. Oliver is quiet, always frowning as though she shot his puppy. He seems to regard her as some sort of novelty, like a sideshow freak in a Victorian circus.

Felicity doesn't like feeling like a freak. Which is a lesson Victoria Rodgers learned in fifth grade, after Felicity punched her and took back her stolen retainer.

The door is locked, not surprisingly, to be opened with a keycard and password. She has a device to hack it, so she pulls the keycard hooked up to a password breaker from her bag, sliding the card into the door's slot. She's surprised when ten columns of numbers show up. "Ten-digit password," she comments to no one in particular. "I salute you, sir." To Oliver, she adds, "You know, I find this level of encryption cute. It's like they're actually _trying_ to keep me out."

He narrows his eyes at her, frowning. "Is this why we brought you along?" he asks bluntly. "Couldn't you have done this remotely? You're a liability in the field." It isn't said with any malice; he's just simply stating a fact based on his own experience. It's a new sensation; when most people talk to her, they aren't so nice as this. She's fairly certain this conversation is typically had with more condescension and a few insulting names.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Maybe she's overreacting, but she's used to defending herself verbally against the cold world. "_I'm_ a liability?" she repeats, and her tone isn't as stoic as his. "That's rich, coming from you." She wrinkles her nose. "I don't even know what you _do_, Mr. Judgmental."

"Nobody panic," Roy starts from his comm, and, in Felicity's experience, that's reason enough to do exactly the opposite. "But, Lance, why are the guards doing their walk-through an hour early?" His voice sounds a little high and nervous for someone who's telling the rest of the group not to panic, and Felicity can already feel her heart rate going sky-high.

There's a long pause, and Felicity can feel her heart race. "The playoffs are on," Lance says finally, and Felicity isn't the only one to mutter a _what?_ under her breath. "In the guard booth. They're watching game seven of the playoffs. They're doing their walk-throughs an hour early so that they can watch the playoffs." His voice changes immediately, turning more authoritative when he continues, "Here's what we're gonna do: we're gonna squelch 'em. Harper, you're on comm duty—make sure they can't communicate. Diggle, I want that car running when we come out. Smoak, they're on you and Queen—hold tight." Then Felicity's heart stops as Lance continues, "Queen, your job is to intercept them—use the girl as bait."

"No problem," comes Oliver's assurance, and he must pick up on her minor freak-out, judging by the way his hand falls on her shoulder in comfort. "I'll keep you safe, Felicity," he says, and it's a promise that she knows he's intent on keeping. He walks off down the corridor, and she turns back to her device. Only six numbers are finished, and she knows it's not going to move fast enough to unlock the door. She doesn't want to run—because she's committed to the job and she's determined to earn her paycheck—but she knows she can't stay. And Roy's frantic statements in her ear aren't helping.

Finally, she turns, but it's at the same time the guards turn the corner. Five of them, all armed and in very impressive suits for security. She raises her hands above her head immediately, holding up her duffle, too. "Drop the bag," one commands, and she complies, frowning as she releases it.

It's about the same time that Oliver strikes, moving quickly and efficiently, with all the finesse of a trained fighter. The first guard earns a broken arm before Oliver drops him, the second earning the same before he can turn. Guard three is able to turn and raise his gun, but this time Oliver pulls it out of his hand before he can fire, then lands a swift jab to the man's face, dropping him instantly. Guard four manages a step, but then he's stopped by a right hook. Guard number five earns his way into a one-armed chokehold, and Oliver pulls the gun out of his hand as he slumps, and Oliver drops him.

The bag hits the ground at the same time the last guard does, and Oliver flashes Felicity a ridiculously smug smile before releasing the clip from the gun and pulling out the firing pin. "_That_," he says with a hint of pride, "is what I do."

Felicity manages to nod once, swallows hard. "Yeah, okay," she says after a long moment. "It's kind of violent, but it works." She shrugs. "I guess if you're good at something, you can always find a niche market for it." He smiles wider at that, flashing teeth. The modified keycard dings behind her, and she smiles when she sees the door open. "And _that_, Mr. Queen, is what _I_ do."

* * *

Oliver watches the door open of its own accord, and Felicity is the one to look smug when she turns to find it open. "And _that_, Mr. Queen," she says, her voice taking on a low, flirty tone, "is what _I_ do." Without waiting for him, she turns, heading back toward the doorway.

The space beyond is filled with technology that Oliver doesn't understand—servers and computers. He's out of his element here, but Felicity moves to the back of the room, to what must be the main console. She runs a hand over its monitor before purring at it, "Oh, _hello_ gorgeous. How about you and I spend some time alone together?" Her tone may not do anything for the computer, but it certainly catches Oliver's attention, causing him to do a double-take.

Oblivious, she clicks away on the keyboard, all the while talking to the computer. "First, darling," she continues, "I'm going to break through all your security protocols, then I'm going to strip your drives, and _finally_, I'm going to leave you with a nice little malware present."

Through the comm, he can hear the kid snicker before replying dryly, "Well, with that level of honesty, it's no wonder why you don't get more dates."

The room is dark, but, against the glare of the computer screen, Oliver can see her cheeks heat. "Shut up, Roy," she gripes. "You know I like to sweet-talk my technology. I charm them telling me their secrets." She frowns as she types a line of code into a black box on the screen. "Sadly, said charm is lost on everyone with a pulse. Except for creepily stalker-ish lacrosse players, apparently. And, on your general comments toward my dating history, one, it is _incredibly_ difficult to meet datable people when your profession is illegal, and, two, I will _not_ be pressured into a relationship by you—_or_ my mother, for that matter."

The next time she speaks, it's with a triumphant smile on her face. "I'm leaving this cupboard bare, boys," she announces. "The data has been transferred to the my drives. All the designs and backups have been erased from the server."

"Drop the spike," Lance growls in oversight, and, with one press of a button, Felicity makes the screen flash blue in that way he's come to dread. One by one, all the lights on the servers go dark, and she turns and flashes Oliver a cocky smile.

"Did you give them a virus?" he can't help but ask. He has to admit, Felicity Smoak is a little scary with the way she can destroy everything digital in five minutes. Suddenly the world of computers doesn't seem so boring.

She chuckles as if that's the funniest thing she's heard all day. She pats his shoulder, surprising him, before saying, "Oh, that's _adorable_—_a_ virus." He follows her down the hall, back toward the elevators they used to enter. "As in, the singular version." She flashes him a wicked smile. "What sort of hacker would I be if I dropped _one_ virus? I gave them _all_ the viruses. Plus some I'm pretty sure don't exist yet."

Roy's voice stops them. "There's a problem, guys," he says, his voice a little high with the nervous energy. "Those guards Queen massacred? They reset all the alarms—we can't go up."

Oliver shrugs. "So every man for himself," he says flatly, starting to walk away. That's how his jobs always run when things get tough, and he doesn't see how this should be any different.

"Go ahead," Felicity calls behind him. He turns to face her, knowing a challenge when he hears one. She holds up her bag. "I'm the one with the merchandise."

"And I'm the one with the exit," Roy pipes up in support of his partner. "So if you want your ass in a jail cell, go ahead—we don't need you."

"I think you're forgetting the getaway driver," Diggle adds calmly. "The exit doesn't do any good if you don't have anywhere to go once you leave."

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ the one with the plan," Lance growls, silencing all of them. Oliver wonders if he's the only one who has forgotten he's even there. "Now I know you kids don't play well together, but I need you to hold it together for exactly seven more minutes. We started this job together, and we'll _finish_ it together." He lets that sink in before ordering, "Switch to the burned scam. Smoak, Queen, get to the elevator and head down. Roy, you're the only one with an exit—take it."

"Cheers, boys," Felicity replies as she starts forward again. "Have fun crawling through ducts, Roy."

"Bite me, Blondie," is the reply, but there's no malice in the sentence. The two must have been working together a long time, and their partnership is almost like a friendship. Oliver knows it seems nice for now, but it probably won't be once one of them ends up betraying the other. After all, that's how it always seems to work out.

"I guess we're going to Plan B?" Felicity asks as she waits for the elevator doors to open.

Lance answers with, "Technically, this is Plan G."

Felicity speaks Oliver's question. "How many plans are there?" Then she adds one of her own: "Is there, like, a Plan M?"

"Roy dies in Plan M," Lance answers dryly, and Oliver thinks the ex-cop might have some fondness for the little blonde. If anyone else had asked that question, he wouldn't have answered."

Oliver shrugs. "I like Plan M," he says quietly to the hacker, not even trying to hide the slight smile. It earns him a slap on the shoulder and a glare, and he decides to let both slide, not even bothering to catch her hand.

As soon as the elevator doors open, Felicity rushes in with her duffle. Oliver follows at a slower pace, pulling off his black ski cap as he pushes the button for the first floor. At the same time, she positions herself in one corner, her back to him. Apparently she has the same idea about the cap because blonde hair flies as she removes it, but then she grabs the hem of her shirt and hoists it over her head, exposing an uninterrupted flow of pale skin from shoulder to hip.

He turns his back as quickly as he can manage, though he does admit his eyes linger for a moment. Then he remembers he has his _own_ clothes to change, and focuses on replacing his dark attire with a business suit. He's a little sluggish, though, because his mind is trying to remember what he knows he should forget.

He's about to fasten his tie when she says, "Hey, zip me up," and motions to the back of her red dress. He swallows before doing as she asks, ensuring his hands don't linger. When she turns, she has no such qualms about personal space. "Thank you," she says as she pulls the tie under his collar and settles it into a knot, sliding it up to his neck and smoothing his collar with her hands. He thinks for a moment that she pulls off the look quite nicely, even with her purple fingernails. His eyes drop, and maybe they linger a little too long on the cutout below her collarbone that teases him a little.

Whatever moment she created between them passes as she slides on the black high heels from her bag, by standing on one leg and sliding the shoe over her toes. She loses balance as the elevator stops, and Oliver catches her by the waist.

"Damn it," she says, her voice a little high-pitched. "We're stopped, and I haven't even gotten to the make up kit." It takes a moment for Oliver to realize that the burned scam is out because she hasn't used the costume makeup for gashes.

"Hide the bags," Lance commands, and Felicity pops open a light cover and starts throwing the bags up, making sure to first drop the flash drive with the designs down in that cutout of her dress. Oliver tries to keep his eyes from wandering, but he thinks Felicity might have noticed, judging by that knowing smile on her face. "You'll have to find some way to improvise. Find it quick—and sell it."

The elevator dings as the door slides open, and Oliver knows he has to take control, judging by the way Felicity is staring at him like a deer in the headlights. "Follow my lead," he insists, before making what he _knows_ is going to be the stupidest mistake of his life.

Still, he pushes her up against the nearest wall of the elevator and, before he can change his mind, he attacks her mouth with his own, trying to make it look like another office affair. He pulls her so tightly against him that he can feel the flash drive against his chest, but he decides he probably shouldn't focus on that. She gasps into his mouth, then wraps her arms around his neck, which helps him decide that she'll go along with this. He tries to tell himself the kiss is all business—just two grifters in a scene that will keep them out of jail—but that thought process goes out the window when she throws her leg over his hip. He means to hold it in place, his fingers just above her knee, but somehow his hand works its way up her thigh several inches.

She breaks the kiss to tilt her head up to his ear, and he can feel her lips against it as she whispers, "Just a show, remember? If your hand wanders any higher, I'm going to stick my knife between your ribs." His hand immediately slides down toward her knee, and he can feel her smile against his ear.

He puts his mouth to hers again as they play their parts again, but they're brought out of it by a guard yelling, "Stop right th—" He stops as they pull apart, and Oliver thinks the blush across Felicity's face isn't an act.

Oliver makes a show of straightening his tie as they pull apart, trying to look like the philandering executive he's pretending to be. "My secretary and I were just…" He focuses the man with a knowing look. "Working late on the approval for the salary increases."

The guard is quick on the uptake—and apparently corruptible, which Oliver likes in a person he's trying to manipulate. "Yes, sir," he replies quickly. "In fact, I think I saw your secretary leave two hours earlier while you stayed late."

Oliver winks at him as Felicity smooths down her skirt. "I'll remember that when I go back to the salary paperwork tomorrow," he replies with a wink. "Thank you, Hutchison," he adds with a quick read of the man's name tag.

He salutes, and the two walk out of the building to Diggle's waiting car. Oliver holds the door open as she slides into the backseat next to Roy, and Oliver falls into place on the other side of her. No one speaks, though everyone probably heard the scene through the comms—especially when she whispered the threat into the same ear he placed his comm.

"Sorry about your shirt," Felicity replies calmly. Oliver notes, however, that she's blushing and that she doesn't look at him when she speaks.

"What do you mean?" he asks, looking down at his shirt to see it completely untouched.

She fingers the collar, and he notices a dark stain on it. "This shade of lipstick doesn't come out of white clothing well—take it from someone who knows."

Oliver smiles smugly at her before saying, "Feel free to ruin my shirts any time." It only makes her blush darker.

Roy groans. "We already had to hear you two make out over the comms—isn't that _enough_ torture for one night?"


End file.
